Pasha (4 page)

A liveried footman was standing at attention by the coach steps, the other perched aloof behind.

A crowd quickly gathered, thrilled to be so close to what must be a very important personage, and as Kydd appeared, there was a ripple of excitement and muffled cheers. He doffed his cocked hat to them and couldn't resist calling loudly to the innkeeper, “I'm off to attend on His Majesty, my man—I shall not be dining tonight.”

It brought gratifying gasps and chatter as he allowed himself to be handed up, to sit in lonely splendour as the resplendent sergeant on the lead horse barked orders to set them smartly on their way.

Fortunately, although the sky was dull and grey, the rain was holding off. The cavalcade had no difficulty with the notorious London traffic and they bowled along westwards at a steady clip, the massed clatter of hoofs drawing admiring attention as people stopped to gape. Kydd kept a stony expression, looking only to the front, ignoring cheers and catcalls from urchins but deigning to lift his hat to gentlemen who troubled to remove theirs as he passed.

The King's residence, Windsor Castle, hove into view, all stern battlements and round towers, and Kydd's heart thumped. In a twist of irony he remembered it was not the first time he had been directly addressed by his sovereign. That had been long ago when he was a young seaman in
Artemis,
a man-of-war the same size as
L'Aurore
in which he had fought in the first big frigate action of the Revolutionary War. He recalled a kindly face, bemused blue eyes and a comment about Surrey Cross sheep. Would he … ?

In a practised show they swung about to clatter in through the ancient archways, proceeding to the solemn entrance the other side of the vast courtyard. Kydd glimpsed the mast above the great round tower. It did not fly the Union flag of Great Britain: instead the lions and leopards of the Royal Standard of King George III floated there imperiously. The sovereign was at home.

As Kydd rose to alight, he looked around. It was so unreal, so impossible, that this day Tom Kydd of Guildford was about to
be received by the monarch that his vision dissolved into a series of dazed impressions.

Here he was, standing in a castle first occupied by William the Conqueror after 1
066,
and witness to the stately panoply of the centuries since that was England's past—and which he had first learned about in dame school. If crabby Miss Bowling could only see him now …

An equerry and royal footmen in blue and gold edged with red emerged to greet him. It seemed he was expected, and that His Majesty had expressed a desire that he should be presented at once.

He was ushered inside to a quiet magnificence, passing through majestic rooms hung with vast ancestral portraits, then across a hall of blinding splendour before reaching the state apartments, set about with lordly bewigged footmen.

An elderly gentleman of infinite dignity was waiting before high closed doors. The equerry murmured Kydd's name to him and he was introduced to the lord chamberlain.

A quiet briefing was given: Kydd should bow as he was introduced but a short bow rather than the elaborate affair fashionable in drawing rooms. He should not speak until spoken to and he should remain standing until bidden otherwise. This being an informal audience without others present, full expressions of fealty were not to be expected and, indeed, His Majesty was known for his kindness and interest in meeting his subjects.

With his cocked hat firmly under his arm, stiffly at attention, Kydd took a deep breath and nodded.

The lord chamberlain smiled encouragingly and knocked discreetly. The door was opened wide from the inside and Kydd nervously followed him into the Presence.

Oblivious to the subdued grandeur of the room, Kydd had eyes for one thing only.

George III, by the Grace of God, King of the United Kingdom
of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, sat at a table spread with a silver tea service, his queen standing next to him, a lady-in-waiting behind.

“Your Majesty, may I present Captain Thomas Kydd of the Royal Navy?”

Kydd bowed jerkily, his heart in his mouth.

“Thank you, Dartmouth. Well, now, Kydd, and you'll be relishing a dash of peace and quiet after your mortal perils in Curacoa, hey?”

He became aware of a heavy face but kindly eyes, albeit rheumy and filmed.

“Your Majesty, to return to this realm is a pleasure indeed.”

It would probably not be done to tell a king that his pronunciation of Curaçao was somewhat awry.

“As it should be, young man.” The King harrumphed. “It's our pleasure to take a dish of tea at this hour and we're not minded to alter our custom. Do join us, will you? Charlotte, my dear …”

Kydd had a moment of panic—should he sweep his coat-tails elegantly behind as he sat or keep his sword from twisting under him? But, of course, unlike those of army officers, a naval sword hung loosely, the better to sit in boats, and he concentrated on a flourish with the tails. The sword obediently conformed and in relief he accepted an elegant, tiny porcelain cup from the Queen, who smiled winningly at him.

“So, Kydd. The Hollanders were all before you and the battle not yet won. What did you say to your men that they followed you into the cannon's fury? Tell away, young fellow!”

Kydd's mind froze as he tried desperately to remember exactly what he had shouted in those mad moments as he'd thrown himself and his crew against the forts. Then he realised that exactitude was not what was being asked and he replied gravely, “Sire, I remember it as, ‘Come, my lads, to the fore and the day is ours!'”

“Ah! A true son of the sea speaks! Would that we had more of your ilk, Kydd!”

There was then nothing for it but to deliver a detailed account of the action, the obvious interest and enthusiasm of the King easing his fears.

“Capital! In the best traditions of the Navy, of Nelson himself, I shouldn't wonder.”

Kydd flushed, overwhelmed at such praise from his sovereign.

“Now you'll want to be on your way, we fancy,” the King said, rising. Kydd scrambled to his feet.

“But before you go, if we might detain you a little longer …”

On cue a court official entered noiselessly, bearing something on a satin cushion.

The King lifted a glittering object on a white and blue riband from it and turned to Kydd. “Captain, in the name of England we bestow upon you this, in distinction of the valour you displayed upon the field of Curacoa.”

Kydd knelt and bent his head, feeling it pass over his neck, then rose, overcome.

“We wish you good fortune, Captain, and God preserve you until next we meet.”

“I do thank you for the great honour you have done me, Your Majesty,” Kydd managed, with a bow.

Dazed by events, Kydd descended from the carriage at the back of the Admiralty. He had taken tea with the King of England and now wore his honour. He looked down on it yet again: a pure gold medal on a riband as put there by the hands of His Majesty. It nobly bore a representation of Victory placing a wreath upon the head of Britannia, standing proudly on the prow of a ship with her shield and spear.

It was beyond imagining—what more could life bring?

He was met by an unctuous flag-captain, who ushered him into a room where the reception was well under way, the candlelight glittering on gold lace and stars—and dramatic with the splash of colour in sashes and uniform.

“Sir, may I present Captain Kydd of
L'Aurore
frigate?”

The prime minister smiled with every evidence of delight. “Glad you could make it, old fellow. Wouldn't be the same without we had all the heroes of Curaçao.”

“My honour entirely, sir.”

“We'll talk presently, I'm sure. Do find yourself some refreshment.”

Kydd turned to see a familiar face beaming at him. It was Captain Brisbane, whom he'd last seen in the Caribbean near hidden in the smoke of guns.

“What ho, Kydd! We'd just about given up on you.”

“Ah, Charles, we were detained by the little matter of relieving the French of yet another island.”

“Stout chap, always knew we'd find you where the action was thickest. My, what a fuss they're making over us. You'd think we'd sent Boney himself to Hades.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “We never did get to lay those privateers by the tail. Did you hear if … ?”

“We found 'em on Marie Galante and collared the lot,” Kydd answered. “Couldn't say much about it for fear of scarifying the planters.”

“Well, that's good to hear. So you're only just arrived? Not heard the news?”

“Orders to report here without losing a moment, no reason given.”

Brisbane frowned. “That's not the way to treat a hero of Curaçao.” He brightened. “Look, I know what we'll do—over here.”

They threaded through the throng until they reached the back of the room. Copies of the
Gazette
were stacked neatly on a small table under a mirror. Brisbane took one. “Nip in there for a minute and read all about why you're here,” he said, gesturing at a side room.

Kydd did so and soon found a dignified headline announcing the capture of Curaçao.

He read avidly—it was a fair account, detailing all the acts of individual courage and dash shown that day. He went pink with pleasure to see his own part lauded in measured, stately prose, his name there in print to be read by any in the kingdom.

He moved on to the last paragraphs, which detailed the honours and rewards of the actions.

A naval gold medal was to be awarded to every captain, His Majesty insistent that he present the honour himself.

Then in a cold wash of shock he saw his name—right there, in a list of those … to be further honoured with a … knighthood. These several captains to be elevated to the style and dignity of a Knight of the Bath. The investiture at St James's Palace … installation into the Order … Thursday next at Westminster Abbey.

His hand trembled as he gripped the paper and his eyes misted with emotion. He was very soon to be … Sir Thomas Kydd, KB, knight of the realm.

Honours and fame were now indisputably his.

In a trance he entered the main room again, carefully placing the paper back where he had found it.

Brisbane gave a soft smile. “Now you can see how you've been cutting it so fine. The accolade—where you get your step to knight from the King—there, your sea gear is more to be expected. But your installation into an order of chivalry, you have to be in the right rig for that or they won't have you. Clap on all sail—I'll give you the address of the court costumier fellow.”

Kydd took in some of the others in the room. Over there was Lydiard of
Anson,
whom he hadn't seen since the frightful drama of a chase together in the depths of a hurricane; Bolton of
Fisgard,
out of his depth, stuttering at a half-deaf statesman … He could have hugged them all.

The day had changed so drastically—like a weathercock in a storm. The morning, with its dread and worry, to this, this …

With a stab of feeling, his thoughts went to Renzi. He wished he knew what was happening in Guildford.

But he had his duties, and he turned to the chancellor of the exchequer with the wittiest quip he could find.

It had been just four days. In a blaze of honour, pageantry and the ancient rites of chivalry, he'd become a man of unassailable consequence in the world. He would never again fear any social occasion and could expect deference and respect wherever in life he found himself.

Kydd fought down a jet of elation as he looked about him. Here he was, in attendance at the Court of St James by right, at a levee in company with statesmen and dukes, diplomats and ambassadors, admirals and generals as the King moved about the throng on the highest affairs of state.

He'd never forget the actual moment when King George had, in company with his fellow captains in the Throne Room of this very palace, granted the accolade, dubbing him knight with a tap on each shoulder from the Sword of State and bestowing the riband and star he now wore.

And that had not been the end of the pomp and ceremony. The accolade had been a private occasion between his sovereign and himself; the public expression had been the installation. It was all now a blur of images. Richly dressed in the order's crimson mantle, lined with white and fastened with gold tassels, its great star on
his left, sword and spurs, black velvet cap with a plume of white feathers. The knights moving in solemn procession to Westminster Abbey, two by two in their regalia, with awed crowds on either side. Met by Bath King of Arms, with tabard collar and escutcheon, then ushered into the beautiful fan-vaulted splendour of the Henry VII chapel and gravely welcomed by the Great Master of the Order. Passing within, the walls overhung with crests and banners of great antiquity, helms and achievements in stern display. At the bidding of the Gentleman Usher of the Scarlet Rod, taking his place in the knights' stalls. There before him the stall plates of others who had preceded him: Clive, Rodney, Howe … and Horatio Nelson.

In solemn splendour he had been inducted, from the hands of the King receiving his knightly honours: an enamelled badge of crowns suspended from a glittering gold collar of interlinked crowns and knots.

The hallowed proceedings held the weight of history. In ages past knights would have spent the night before their ennobling in vigil, then were ceremonially bathed and purified, but since the time of the first King George much of the medieval pomp had been discarded; although on the statutes there was still the requirement of a new knight that he provide and support four men-at-arms to serve in Great Britain whenever called upon. Not to be taken too literally, he had been hastily assured.

Kydd had joined the pantheon of heroes who had been honoured thus by their country, their fame assured in perpetuity. He was entitled, as Nelson was, to a coat-of-arms, his crest and heraldic banner, which would be laid up here on his passing and would be blazoned on the side of his carriage to tell all the world that he had been touched by greatness.